


we're losing light, i'm a filmmaker!

by plantyourtreeswithme



Category: Gandrew - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Film School, Bisexual Andrew Siwicki, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Social Anxiety, Underage Drinking, and garrett falls for the quiet and unassuming camera guy that sits on the other side of the room, i'm sure you can guess where this is going, in which andrew is a gay little sophomore with a huge crush on a very impressive junior, simply because his shots are insanely smooth, the inherent homoeroticism of group projects, this isn't so much a film school au as it is a "let them be kids and love each other" au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25983022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantyourtreeswithme/pseuds/plantyourtreeswithme
Summary: Everyone in the UCLA film department knows who Garrett Watts is - he's only the best student director anyone's ever seen, and the most ruthless editor on campus. They've all seen his ground-breaking, dazzling feature-length flicks; they've all heard the stories about how he holes up in his little apartment to edit, and doesn't come out for days. His festival plaques line the walls outside the nicest theater. Whispers about him hang off the tongues of new students, who never dare to speak his name aloud.The man's a legend.And he's pickedAndrew, of all people, to help him film his next big project.
Relationships: Andrew Siwicki/Garrett Watts
Comments: 25
Kudos: 85





	we're losing light, i'm a filmmaker!

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Garrett's snarky little ["wE'rE LoSiNg LiGhT, i'M a FiLmMaKeR" quip](https://youtu.be/ZsHg3dA3ocI?t=303).

Andrew Siwicki is running on fumes.

(Andrew's actually, in fact, a tired little sophomore, and he's currently sitting in the library's café, wishing he'd asked for three shots of espresso in his coffee instead of just two. But he _is_ running on fumes, and that's a fact he's gonna have to live with.)

He and his crazy partner for their Writing for Multimedia class stayed up 'till four last night working on their horror movie screenplay. Or, rather, _Andrew_ had stayed up and finished writing it, while Shane - the vaguely creepy-looking, red-headed communications major that sat next to him in lecture - alternated between FaceTiming his annoying boyfriend and sleeping facedown on the slightly sticky library study-room tabletop.

This scenario did not arise by choice. Andrew simply has no friends in that class. Shane was the last person left by the time everyone else finished pairing up. Andrew, introvert that he is, wishes that particular professor would care enough to assign them groups more often, instead of letting them pick their own.

It's Friday now - because the project was due at the start of their 8:30 a.m. class, and the two of them put it off as long as possible and didn't even bother to exchange numbers. Andrew'd had to _email_ the weirdo to set up a meeting time. But he finally submitted it, three hours before the deadline.

And now he's sitting in the café on a Friday afternoon, and classes are over, and he feels slightly almost-alive. Borderline not-quite-dead-yet, let's say.

His nice, shiny, overheated laptop is open, stickers and external hard drives slapped on the back. There is nothing to do. He sips on his metal tumbler straw, and absentmindedly watches passersby.

He's at that stage of caffeination where his physical form is too abstract for him to trudge back to his dorm and take a nap. When he escaped his film history course at exactly 3:30, he didn't have the energy to make it all the way to South Campus. But now he's here, caffeinated and in the structure nearest to the theatre arts building. And it's raining, anyway. So he might as well just sit here and listen to the gentle pitter patter against the wide library windows.

Andrew sits like this for a while, scrolling through his calendar and taking a look at what's coming up next week. A distant acquaintance texts him and tells him there's a party at some frat house tonight, that he can come along with her if he wants. He figures he'll message back later.

He notices, in something of a daze around 5:49 p.m., that a rather loud commotion is going on around the vicinity of the front door. When he looks up from his computer screen, squinting a little to see better - he doesn't have his glasses on, okay? - he finds that someone is on the floor in the little foyer between the main entrance and the doors to the café, and they seem to be struggling to get up.

The library is about to close, and mostly empty - so he's the only one around to help this poor, slippery bastard.

He pushes himself out of his chair and goes to open the door carefully. "Are you alright?" he asks, Illinois accent peeking annoyingly through his worried tone.

The person whose knees have tragically met their end on the black plastic mat meant to prevent slippage looks up at him - grins a kilowatt smile and says, "Oh, I'm fine! Thank you, how embarrassing!"

And Andrew realizes how utterly fucked he is.

Garrett Watts takes his hand (which Andrew did not realize he had offered) and gets to his feet. "Slipped on my way in, silly old me!" he says. Andrew sees that he - and his carefully-thrifted clothes, his rainbow-patchwork polo shirt and tight-fitting, camo-green pants in all their glory - is soaked to the core.

Andrew is speechless. Garrett throws him another blinding, unfairly gorgeous smile and walks through the door Andrew's still holding open.

"Oh, hey," he says, giving Andrew a once-over as he passes. His voice is musical and sing-song-y, and he seems to be radiating warmth from this close up. "You're in Narrative with me, aren't you?"

"Y-you," Andrew replies, very elegantly. "You mean Narrative... Film Production? And Direction?"

"Yeah, whatever that's supposed to mean," Garrett quips. He laughs effortlessly at his not-even-a-joke, and Andrew's chest tightens. "What's your name again?"

"Andrew," he manages to stutter out.

"Oh, Siwicki, isn't it?" The filmmaker shoulders his backpack - to which his shifting, clattering film equipment sounds its dismay - and beams again. "Always thought that was a cool name. Sounds like an action hero or something, kinda John Wick-esque. God, I love Keanu Reeves."

Andrew really has nothing to say in response to that. He feels his cheeks starting to redden.

"I'm Garrett Watts, by the way," the other man says, in place of Andrew's reply.

"Yeah, I know," Andrew blurts out. He's immediately ashamed at the admission, and blushes even harder - _god, what are you, Siwicki, a fucking stalker or something?_

"Oh, right." Watts rolls his eyes and lets out a little puff of air. "Auteur extraordinaire or something, isn't that what they call me?"

"Mmhmm," is all Andrew can manage to say in the presence of such a god.

They watched his film in Narrative last week. Andrew'd been embarrassed for his own project to follow it up. Garrett had somehow managed to create an almost psychedelic effect with his latest short film, overlaying several different multicolored, slightly off-set shots on top of each other for each take - until they all blended together and everyone's eyes were swimming. It must've taken him _weeks_ to edit, and that was why it'd been so long since his last showing.

It was the most beautiful thing Andrew'd ever seen.

"I'm really not that good, you know," Garrett scoffs now. Andrew's heart thuds thickly in his chest, the effects of the jacked-up coffee he'd consumed earlier starting to wear off in the face of all this adrenaline. Cute _and_ down-to-earth, huh? "You should've seen my friend Drew Monson, oh, man. That guy was a comedic _genius_. 'Course, he went into music, but - oh, my god, his Vine days? Unreal."

"He graduated a few years ago, right?" Andrew says, the name vaguely familiar to him. "I remember hearing about him, when I would, uh. Watch the film showcase live streams, back in high school. He did some soundtrack work for a couple projects?"

"Yeah. Shit, you're only a sophomore, I forgot." Andrew wonders how he knows this tiny little detail about him, but doesn't get the chance to ask before he goes on to say, "You know, I really liked that little noir thing you put together last week. The camerawork was so smooth - and that dolly shot, oh, my god! You were the one doing the shooting, right?"

"Yeah, I was." Andrew glances down at his hands, plucks nervously at the hem of his pullover. He really still can't believe he's talking to _Garrett Watts_. And that he's _complimenting his film work_. "That's really sweet of you to say, man."

"Oh, sure, anytime," Garrett says. He looks kindly at Andrew, who again marvels at just how lovely and vibrant he is up close. "If you wanna work on something together sometime, I'm totally down. Even if it isn't for credit."

"That's so nice of you, oh, my god," Andrew gushes. He's absolutely sure the upperclassman's only offering because he just happened to be there to help him up when he slipped. There's no way he's being serious.

"Of course, man." He claps Andrew on the shoulder, clearly with no idea of the effect it has on Andrew's cardiovascular system. "Hey, I have to get going - gotta take advantage of that rain before it stops - but I'll see you around, bud. It was real nice talking to you."

"Yeah, you, too." Andrew bites his lip as the junior starts to walk away, then scrounges up enough courage to call out, "What are you filming?"

"I'm going up on the roof!" Watts calls over his shoulder, with the ease of a seasoned director. "Gonna shoot a fight scene!"

He gives Andrew a jaunty little wave - and then, just as quickly as he'd crashed into Andrew's life, he's gone.

* * *

Andrew spends the weekend in a haze.

"So you talked to the big man on campus," Ricky said on that fateful Friday night, when he'd come back from some party around midnight with a pizza box slung under his arm and listened to Andrew's unbelievable story with a staggeringly sober gaze. "And he gave you a compliment?"

"Yeah," Andrew replied. He was hanging upside down off his lofted bed, with his head sticking out between the railing posts - a position his mom would no doubt chastise him for, were he still at home. "I just... what the _fuck_ , man? I'm still not sure I didn't dream the whole thing."

Ricky rotated around in his desk chair and chewed thoughtfully on a slice of Meat Lover's. "I don't think you did," he said, with a mouth full of pepperoni; "I've heard other people talk about how nice he is. I think it's totally plausible."

"Okay, but would he talk to _me_ , Ricky? A dinky little Midwest sophomore?"

"You helped him," Ricky shrugged. "You're overthinking, Siwicki." He shook the pizza box at him, and Andrew finally clambered out of the bed to eat.

Before he knows it, it's Thursday evening, and he's walking over from the mess hall to Narrative, his one and only night class. The autumn sun is lovely and temperate against his bare skin, the sleeves of his tracksuit rolled up so he can enjoy the late September warmth. He still isn't used to how different the climate is here compared to back home - the Chicago wind is already bitter enough to warrant bundling up, his parents have told him - and he keeps wearing his fall clothes by mistake.

He enters the film building and makes his way to his normal seat in the tiered lecture hall. Their film buff professor comes in a few minutes late, as always the casual, laid-back hipster they've all seen in indie movies. They look at box office numbers, like they always do at the start of each class, and a few of the more competitive kids make their predictions about the next week. Andrew glances over at Garrett, on the other side of the room, while the rest of the class is engaged in triviality. He seems to be doodling something in the margins of his notebook.

"Okay," Dr. Peterson eventually says, wrapping up the conversation. "I was really happy with the way everyone's projects last week turned out, and there's really no need to review anything. So that means it's time to start our next one."

He goes through the outline of the assignment relatively quickly - mostly free reign for the entire thing, their one and only guideline being to tell a story without words - and then says, "And since partner work went so well at the beginning of this month, why don't we try it again? Let's do groups of two to three, see where it goes from there? Come tell me if you want to work alone or can't find anybody."

The room instantly fills with the excited chatter exclusive only to group projects where you get to pick your friends. Andrew stays seated for a second and watches everyone partner up. A tiny grain of hope sits like a weight on his chest, restricting his lungs. He thinks of that fairytale about the princess and the pea - a tiny little lump in her mattress preventing her from sleep, from peace of mind -

"I call dibs on Siwicki!" someone's voice rings out from across the hall. Andrew's heart swells.

Garrett Watts comes sauntering over, tall as hell - larger than life in a bright yellow sweater, distressed jeans, and huge Timbs. He stands in front of Andrew's portion of the long lecture desk and pokes at the stickers stuck to his laptop cover.

"I like Avatar, too!" he enthuses. "But we really should go check out a camera before we have any bonding time."

"I didn't," Andrew says, as his legs work without his brain telling them to, following Garrett over to the cabinet of school-owned DSLR's. "I didn't think you were actually serious when you said you wanted to work with me."

"Dude, I never lead guys on," Garrett tells him. "I just ghost them after the first date."

Andrew is too shocked and beet-red to fully process that statement, before Garrett turns away from the charging shelves to grin brightly and say, "Kidding!"

"I," Andrew splutters. "I - okay -"

"C'mon, get your bag." The upperclassman pushes the camera bag into his arms, plucks his own backpack from the floor with all the grace of a rhinoceros, and says, "There's this great coffee place, like, ten minutes from here, we can brainstorm there."

"I," says Andrew once again. "Aren't we not allowed to - leave - ?"

"Peterson's giving us the rest of the period free, of course we are," Garrett says smoothly - with the practiced nonchalance of a film school veteran, sick to death of questions and nagging underclassmen. He grabs Andrew's arm and tugs, and Andrew tries to ignore the way his heart surges at his touch.

"You _do_ like coffee, don't you?" Garrett asks as he pushes open the double front doors and holds one open for him. For a moment, Andrew's too caught up in the way the leaves are falling perfectly from the trees overhead to respond. He thinks he can feel Garrett following his gaze, and doesn't notice his companion's stopped walking until he's left him in the dust completely.

"Sorry, I - what are you doing?" he says, glancing over his shoulder at him. He is very obviously taking a picture of Andrew with his phone.

"Sorry!" Garrett says, all bright and cheery and musical. "They were just falling in the prettiest way, and you - I thought, um, maybe we could use this for inspiration?"

He shows Andrew the picture. It's him, with his chin tilted up to the sky and wonder in his eyes. He's in sharp focus, while the surrounding leaves are slightly blurred. He doesn't think he's ever before been photographed in this way.

"You're," he says, a little breathless. "You have a really good eye."

"Aww, thanks!" Garrett says, his voice all high and wind-chime-y. Andrew thinks he might be a wood nymph. He's just about to open his mouth to speak again when Garrett pats him on the shoulder and says, "Coffee, though."

"Mmhmm," Andrew nods sagely. "Coffee."

His companion leads the way to this hole-in-the-wall place a couple blocks from the edge of campus, and opens the door for Andrew. It's charmingly cozy on the inside, all dark green paint and antique lights and warm, brown tables. Garrett steers Andrew over towards a high table in the corner with plush, covered bar stools, before heading up to the counter to order drinks.

"Can I get a medium blonde roast, half-and-half with sugar," Garrett's voice drifts over to him, "and, uh..."

He feels Garrett's eyes land on him, and pretends to be very busy with something on his phone's lock screen.

"Hmm. Uh, medium iced vanilla latte for my friend?"

Andrew blushes hard. Is he really that predictable? Or has Garrett been paying more attention to him when he isn't looking than he originally thought?

He comes back over with their cups a few minutes later. Andrew's has been poured into a foggy mason jar; Garrett's is in an adorable little hand-painted mug that's almost as colorful as he is.

"Thank you so much," Andrew says. He cups his hands around the glass and revels in the coolness against his palms. "Do you have Venmo? Will five dollars cover it?"

"Oh, my god, it's not a problem. You're a baby sophomore, I've got you covered." Garrett waves him off again when he tries once more to pay him, and then settles energetically into his seat - one foot on the lowest rung, the other on the floor.

"How'd you know my drink?" Andrew can't resist asking after a moment of delightful, java-heavy silence.

Garrett hums happily and licks his upper lip. Andrew's eyes linger on him for maybe just a second too long. "Hmm," he eventually says. "Guess?"

"Lucky one," Andrew says. He's never felt this... _full_ before. He thinks he could die happy in this moment; content to sit here for the rest of his life, aglow in the presence of his "celebrity" crush and a stomach brimming with good coffee.

And then:

"Yeah, you strike me as a basic bitch, Siwicki," Garrett says in the most humorless, deadpan tone Andrew's ever heard.

Andrew is a pretty quiet person. Andrew is very embarrassed of his laugh, and typically limits himself to just a few "ha, ha's" whenever he hears something mildly amusing.

This is the first time in a very long while that anyone's been able to draw his real laugh out of him. It falls from his mouth before he can stop himself: a tiny chuckle at first - rivulets dripping from a cracked dam - and then he's practically guffawing, bent over the table and splitting his sides as he crows. In all his life, he's never laughed this freely.

And Garrett's cackling with him, almost hysterically, until he's saying, "Fuck, man," and wiping at his eyes beneath his Harry Potter-ish glasses. "You've got a damn good laugh."

"You think so?" Andrew grins. Another giggle escapes him, and he can't be bothered to try and put it back.

"Yeah! Hell, yeah, man." He looks at Andrew with something new in his expression, something open. Andrew's gaze skitters away, too nervous to meet his eyes for more than a few seconds - but that warmth in his chest doesn't fade.

* * *

They meet up the following Saturday to film. Andrew's heart thuds mercilessly in his chest as he makes his way across campus to Garrett's apartment complex, tucked right behind the theatre arts building. It's a little slipshod and... well-loved, let's say, and it has clearly housed college students for many years. But when Garrett buzzes him in and he steps into his explosion of a living space, the threadbareness of it all seems to fade away.

It's like Garrett infects everything he touches with his personality. There's pictures and movie posters and cool little knick-knacks everywhere Andrew looks, plastered over every surface. A well-worn leather couch sits in the middle of the living room, and there are other pieces of furniture dotted about the room that should definitely clash with each other, as vibrant and multi-colored as they all are, but somehow... don't.

"Wow," Andrew says while Garrett shuts the door behind him. "You've got a great place, man."

"Aww, really? That's so sweet of you, Andrew, thanks."

Andrew puts his camera bag down on Garrett's workstation behind the couch, and they get situated. It doesn't take long; the nature of their project means they don't have to bother with lighting, marks, or any additional cast members. They're aiming for homemade and endearingly sloppy, which hopefully won't take much effort to achieve.

Garrett hands over his waterproof Nikon and smiles broadly. "Good thing I had this already, so we don't have to ruin the school camera," he says. Andrew chuckles in way of reply.

They set up the props in the kitchen and bathroom, and then Garrett leads Andrew to the bedroom. It's not nearly as colorful as the other rooms, but still decorated just as lovingly. The purple record player in the corner catches Andrew's eye almost immediately. He wonders how many records Garrett owns, has listened to. Grew up spinning again and again in his youth; soaked in the cracking of the vinyl and the honey-colored voices in his childhood home.

"Hey, how come you don't have any trophies around?" he asks as Garrett putters about the room and tidies up a bit.

"Oh, uh - you mean from festivals?"

"Yeah, like. Competitions and stuff. I've seen the ones in that one hallway in Melnitz, but I figured..."

"They're all at home," Garrett says, coming over to stand beside him. "In a box in my garage, I think? I've never really cared about that shit."

"Yeah?" Andrew asks.

"Yeah, I... I mean, what I actually _make_ is way more important to me than any medals or prize money. That's not what I'm in this for."

He rests a hand on Andrew's shoulder for a moment, smiles gently, then pulls away. Andrew gets set in front of the bed, adjusts the ISO sensitivity while Garrett musses his hair and clambers into bed wearing just a pair of gym shorts. It feels much too intimate to look at him now, when he doesn't have a shirt on, even though he knows he'll have to soon.

"You ready?"

Andrew nods excitedly, biting down on his lip. He presses the "RECORD" button and meets Garrett's eye.

Garrett tucks himself under the covers and closes his eyes. Andrew lets him lie there for a second, before taking a nervous breath and saying, "Action."

He keeps the focus on Garrett for a moment, then reaches out and carefully inches his hand into view of the lens, until he's touching Garrett's shoulder. He hopes the camera can't pick up how much he's shaking.

Garrett pretends to wake up, bleary-eyed - so convincing, Andrew's heart skips a beat. He wonders what it'd be like to really wake Garrett up in the morning; to be by his side _every_ morning, feel his cold feet under the covers. He moves up to Garrett's face: captures his sleepy grin, the way his smile breaks across his face like sun cresting a hill. Pans down to Garrett's hand atop the covers, which takes his and _squeezes_ just slightly. Letting him know that they're doing this together. That he's just as nervous as Andrew.

The upperclassman jumps out of bed and bounces over to the bathroom, pulling his shirt on with his free hand as he goes. "Oh, to be awoken every morning by the sweet face of my dear Andrew Siwicki," he sighs, still holding onto Andrew's hand - and just like that, Andrew's nervousness shatters. He laughs warmly; he'd forgotten that they're allowed to talk while they film. Garrett will just edit the audio out in post.

He gets closer to Garrett as he starts to brush his teeth - says, "Do you always brush your teeth this aggressively?" Garrett bares them and squints at the camera, grunting like he's a pro wrestler or something, and Andrew laughs until his stomach hurts. He thinks if Garrett makes him laugh any harder, the camera'll be _too_ shaky.

Andrew films Garrett flouncing into the kitchen, practically skipping his way there and still with Andrew's hand in tow. He's sure to catch their intertwined fingers every once in a while, like the camera's almost glancing down in disbelief. Andrew wouldn't be able to believe it, either, if Garrett allowed him to hold his hand for this long in real life.

They gather Garrett's keys from the counter and banter some more on their way down to the first floor. Andrew captures Garrett as he throws his head back in the elevator, belly-laughing after Andrew says mercilessly, "So do you spend every Saturday morning holding hands with underclassmen, or are you trying something new?" He shoots Garrett tapping little rhythms on the elevator's handrail - captures his fit of giggles when he poorly sings, _"Shawty's like a melody in my head."_ He catches the tiny grin and eyebrow-raise Garrett tosses over his shoulder as they walk over to the car.

It's the easiest thing in the world to keep his eyes trained on Garrett and never look away.

He keeps holding onto Andrew while he drives, their hands resting on the little console thing between the seats. They banter and keep making each other laugh while they film; it comes so naturally, Andrew doesn't know how it's taken them this long to come together like this. He feels like they've already been friends for years, somehow. Garrett navigates through the ruthless L.A. traffic just as effortlessly as they wander through their conversation, keeping up the witty back-and-forth. Andrew can't get enough of it. He wishes it could stay in the final cut of this project. Garrett's laugh deserves to be preserved for all eternity.

Santa Monica comes too soon for Andrew's liking. They park and get out of Garrett's beat-up Prius, joining hands again once they're outside. "I hope you know how special you are, Andrew," Garrett tells him. Andrew's heart rate jolts upward to about three hundred BPM.

"Oh?" he says, hoping he's adequately containing his breathlessness.

"Yeah, I mean, I don't let just _anyone_ come over on a Saturday and hold my hand for forty-five minutes straight. You're really something else."

"Come on," he teases. They start to walk down towards the beach, and he rolls his eyes. "I bet you say that to _all_ the sophomore film buffs you seduce in the classes you keep failing."

"Hey!" Garrett cries, too outraged at the implication that he's an idiot to really notice Andrew's word choice. "I did last year _abroad_ , you dumbass, I didn't _fail_ Narrative!"

Andrew laughs and laughs. Garrett smirks and drags him forward - they hit sand, and Andrew calls, "Garrett, slow down!" - the camera's shaking slightly in his grip, but Garrett doesn't seem to mind - and then they're knee-deep in the ocean, and Garrett turns around to face him and Andrew's breath catches in his throat - he's smiling softly, gently, the sun shining golden through his hair and the waves a little cold at their thighs - and then he's grinning wickedly, and tugging on Andrew's arm, and -

A watery shout falls from Andrew's lips. He opens his eyes to see his speech bubbling up to the sky. Garrett leans forward and pokes the camera lens, almost like he's booping someone's nose. Andrew's never felt this alive.

The California sun breaks against his skin as Garrett heaves him up to the surface. He blinks, presses one of the camera buttons on instinct. The red recording light blinks off.

"Oh, my _god_ , man, that was so fucking great!" Garrett's yelling. "I can literally see it in my head already, with the music and everything - how the fuck did it take us so long to start working together?"

"I don't know," Andrew says, grinning. He's blinded by how brightly Garrett's shining.

"God, Andrew - do you think we should do another take? I mean, we'd have to, like, shower and everything - we'd probably have to do it tomorrow morning... Aw, you know what? What the hell? Who cares? That was so fucking insane. I've never felt that good about a shoot before."

He pulls Andrew into a slippery hug. Andrew holds him close - pushes his hair out of his face and thinks, _I wish every day could be like this._

* * *

They get lunch at a Mexican place around the corner from Garrett's, and then head their separate ways.

Garrett assures him he can handle the editing by himself - "It's one continuous shot, 'Wicki, how long do you think it'll take?" - and lets Andrew go bask in the afterglow of the day alone. Ricky's out with other friends, so he has their room to himself.

He lies on his bed and covers his face with his hands for at least fifteen minutes. His brain still hasn't completely caught up with the events of this morning yet.

They _had_ to be flirting. What else could it be? He'd called Andrew _special_. He, Garrett Watts - the most talented filmmaker ever to grace UCLA's campus - had said _Andrew_ was something else.

He goes and takes a cold shower. (His cheeks are still red when he gets out.)

A text from Garrett is waiting for him when he gets back to his room. Thank goodness they'd had the foresight to leave their phones in the apartment, before jumping into the ocean.

> **garrett watts 3:41pm:** I had a great time filming with you today!!! I'll let you know when I finish&submit :^)

Andrew hates how fast his heart races when he picks up his phone to write back.

> **Reply 4:02pm:** i had a great time too! you're really fun to work with:)  
>  **Reply 4:03pm:** thanks so much again for doing all the editing, i really appreciate it

There’s definitely _something_ there. For a few sweet hours, Andrew could almost picture a future with him , as crazy as that sounds . But Garrett’s a junior, with a million different projects going on at once. He’s sure to have festival portfolios to prepare and endless scripts to write. There’s no way he’ll have time - let alone _want_ \- to date Andrew. Who he’d complimented, but also called a “baby sophomore” in the coffee shop.

Andrew sighs and sets his dreams aside. He’ll go to the gym, maybe, and finish his Intro to Communications Research essay.

Garrett texts him a few more times over the course of the next two weeks, touching base about the project every so often before going back to silence. Andrew follows him on Instagram and Twitter, finds his Spotify profile. Doesn’t have the courage to add him on Snap. But he does keep going back over and over again to replay the cutest video he put on his Insta story, where he gushed about how excited he was for this new project and showed a tiny clip of them diving underwater. (He may have screen-recorded it, too. And favorited it in his camera roll.)

He shows up to class on the due date and expects never to speak to Garrett again. He knows how group projects go; maybe they’ll wave if they pass each other on campus sometime, but it’s not like they’ll stay friends.

Then Garrett steps foot inside the lecture hall, makes direct eye contact with Andrew, and comes to sit in the empty seat next to him with a huge smile plastered on his face.

It’s been two weeks since they’ve seen each other. Peterson gave them the last class free so they could work on their own schedules. Andrew is more than a little surprised to see him sitting at the same desk as him.

“H,” Andrew says eloquently. He can already feel his face reddening. “Hi.”

“Hi, Andrew,” Garrett whispers to him excitedly. He’s digging around in his bag, and eventually retrieves a Tupperware container practically overflowing with gummy bears.

“This is very adult behavior,” Andrew whispers back, already holding out his hand in expectation. Garrett gives him three green ones and brushes his palm in the process. Andrew tries not to think anything of it. Knows he will be replaying this moment in his head for the next couple months or so.

Dr. Peterson hosts the weekly dick-measuring contest and entertains a few measly arguments about who’s going to be cast as the next James Bond. “It’s obviously gonna be Idris Elba, _duh_ ,” Garrett mutters under his breath to Andrew. “Are you kidding me?”

“My bet’s on Lashana Lynch, actually,” Andrew murmurs back, and Garrett’s whole face lights up in a soft gasp, his eyes wide.

“For real? Dude, I hadn’t even thought about that before -”

“Okay, I think it’s time for our premieres!” Peterson calls. He gestures for someone sitting in the corner to dim the lights, and Andrew sits a little straighter in his chair. He’s very predictably, characteristically nervous, but even more so than usual.

“They’re all gonna love ours,” Garrett says softly. Andrew glances over at him, a little surprised that he picked up on his concern so quickly, and smiles.

Everyone else’s flicks are paired with sad, morose piano music, and depict characters sitting alone in dark bedrooms, brooding and depressed. Andrew worries for a moment that they picked the wrong take - that theirs is too happy, upbeat - but a quick look from Garrett calms him, reassuring and solid. He wonders if Garrett would say yes to coffee again after Peterson inevitably lets them out early -

“And here’s our last one,” the professor calls, dragging his mouse over on the wide screen before them to find the link to their film. “What’s it called, boys?”

“‘Stranger,’” Garrett calls out, with such ease. Andrew draws in a small breath of surprise.

“Oh, that’s what we named it?” he smirks coyly.

“Yeah,” Garrett tells him. His eyes dart over to Andrew, and he _swears_ he catches them dropping to his lips for a split second. “After the song.”

It really is a good song - [ an indie rock piece by a group called Dr. Dog ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yMe4Qf9nrg) Andrew’s never heard of before, but that Garrett evidently loves. When he’d sent Andrew the link for his approval and he’d listened for the first time, he couldn’t keep from smiling. The bass guitar’s almost buoyant and childlike, and works perfectly; you can’t help but move a little in your seat when you hear it. It fits their short film almost too well - like a time capsule from the sixties, a little snippet of summer that Andrew can catch and hold like paper in his hands. The warm months giving way to winter; the lingering heat of summer fading into cool October.

Peterson clicks play and then full-screen. It starts out completely black. The tambourine shakes and jingles, and then it smash-cuts to Garrett’s sleeping face, serene and still.

Andrew watches as they make their way through the story at almost double speed, the colors exaggerated and bold from Garrett’s editing. The yellows pop; the blues are cool and saturated; the greens of the trees outside will shine bright and lush, he knows, even though they haven’t seen them yet.

He sees himself following Garrett through the apartment - tries not to think about how in love he felt that morning.

The music complements perfectly the joy Garrett exudes onscreen. He looks so happy and carefree, laughing at Andrew’s silent jokes and occasionally smiling down at their laced fingers himself, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Andrew tells himself it’s just a character, he’s just acting. There can’t be any real emotion behind what he does for the camera.

But there’s this tiny seed of hope taking root in his heart, and he doesn’t want to pull it out.

The only original audio Garrett kept is the sound of the waves splashing around Andrew as they submerge and then surface. Then, too soon, the screen is fading back to black, and the film is over.

The room is silent.

Andrew counts twenty seconds before Peterson closes his agape mouth and then opens it again to say, “Wow.”

He and Garrett both release a sigh neither realized they’d been holding.

“That was… that was something else,” the professor says, stunned. “I’ve never… never, in my entire teaching career, seen a student film that compelling.”

“Thanks, Dr. Peterson!” Garrett chirps giddily.

“Does anyone… want to share what they thought with Garrett and Andrew?” Peterson addresses the class. “I certainly have a lot to say, but if anyone else wants to go first?”

An awed conversation starts up, but suddenly fades to a buzz in Andrew’s head as Garrett leans over to him and says:

“I told you so.”

He finds Andrew’s hand on the tabletop and squeezes it briefly. Andrew smiles ridiculously and wishes he has the courage not to let go.

* * *

Time passes impossibly, infallibly, and Andrew finds himself at a party two weeks later, still trying to forget about what had to have been a very nice dream.

Ricky roped him into going, because Ricky couldn’t find anyone else to go with, and also because Andrew is apparently his best friend. Which Andrew already knows, of course. It’s just hard coming to terms with the reality that is his life. Which Garrett Watts is no longer in.

They hadn’t had class the week after their showings, and Garrett had been noticeably absent from the next one. Andrew hadn’t had the courage to text and ask where he was. And Garrett hadn’t messaged to find out what he’d missed. So Andrew slipped back into admiring from afar - turning on his post notifications, and glancing around whenever he walked outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of Garrett. No such luck, though.

“Heard about your little debut with Watts,” Ricky says while they’re on the way to the house. The late October wind is crisp and chilled, nipping at Andrew’s ankles as they walk, but he doesn’t really mind. Anything to sober him up later, when he and Ricky are stumbling home in a drunken stupor.

“Yeah, it went well,” Andrew replies. He definitely doesn’t seem as nonchalant as he’s trying desperately to appear. Ricky pays no mind.

“Gonna work with him again?” he prods, a bastardous, downright evil smirk on his face. “Maybe ask him out to dinner and a movie?”

“Mr. Siwicki is not available to give a statement at this time,” Andrew deadpans - revels at the snort it draws from Ricky. Feels an ache in his chest when he remembers how he used to make Garrett laugh so easily.

“Sure thing,” Ricky says, and grabs Andrew’s elbow. “We’re here.”

He can tell from outside that the house is already too loud and crowded for his liking, but Ricky won’t be letting him out of this one for at least a couple hours.

“Ricky, is this a Halloween party?” he asks too late, dimly recognizing the fake blood on Ricky’s previously nice and respectable t-shirt as they step inside.

“Yeathgnfg,” his roommate says, through the fake plastic fangs he just slid into his mouth.

“Is it fucking Halloween already?”

“Dumbassthgfd,” comes the reply, and then Ricky’s dragging him off to find drinks.

Parties really aren’t Andrew’s vibe; he’ll go every once in a while to get shit-faced, but tries not to make a habit of it. Standing in a loud, packed room for hours on end and trying to hear people over the ear-splitting music isn’t exactly his idea of fun. But Ricky invited him, and it’s been a while since his last one. And he’s still trying to erase all of the golden Garrett Watts memories from his head. A copious amount of alcohol should do the trick.

Ricky shows him around to a couple people he dimly recognizes, with whom he has a few mildly interesting conversations. He’s three shots deep in Ricky-poured vodka when someone introduces him to a girl with curled blonde hair, a nice, blurry face, and a tinsel-y halo glued to her headband. She’s clearly dressed as an angel of some kind. Andrew wonders if she came matching with a devil - thinks, _And Garrett called_ me _a basic bitch._

Takes another swig of Whiteclaw.

“I’m Morgan,” she says, in a very friendly and sober manner. Andrew nods several times to emphasize her point, before remembering he owes her a response.

“Oh,” he realizes. “Andrew.”

“Nice to meet you!” she says. She’s very bubbly and talkative - maybe too much for Andrew’s inebriated liking. He’s in that sort of fog where things feel nice and slow; that is, until he runs into someone who talks a little too fast. He thinks someone may have passed him a joint at some point, so it’s possible he’s just the tiniest bit crossed. What a terrible time to meet someone new and pretty-looking.

“What’s your major?” he asks, because that’s what he’s supposed to ask. He wonders if there’s any water around - feels vaguely like he might throw up.

“Communications,” she gushes, “with a minor in marketing. I’m thinking of adding a second minor or maybe doubling, but my advisor said -”

“Oh, my _god_ , man, is that Andrew Siwicki?!” someone suddenly cries from behind.

Andrew hears his name shouted rowdily from across the room, but still jumps when he feels a large, strong arm reach around and tug him in against the speaker’s broad chest.

He recognizes the scent of Garrett’s fucking _laundry detergent_ (why does he know what that smells like?) before his face even swims blearily into view. They’re standing so close, he could rest his head against Garrett’s collarbone - until he notices that he is, and giggles giddily to himself. Has he always been this much shorter than Garrett?

“Morgan, you know Andrew?” Garrett asks her happily.

“Yeah, I was just about to -”

“Okay, only it’s just that Andrew’s friend sent me over here to take him for refills,” Garrett says evenly, and pulls Andrew away in the opposite direction of the bar.

“Um, drinks are that way,” Andrew tells him. He pulls gently at Garrett’s collar and snickers again.

“Yeah, I know, hon,” Garrett says, keeps walking. He sounds very distinctly not drunk. “You just looked like you needed rescuing, is all.”

“She’s nice, though,” Andrew says: a statement of stone-cold fact. “I think.”

“Trust me, ‘Wicki, you really don’t wanna get involved with that family.”

Andrew hums blissfully and takes in Garrett’s taxi-yellow tracksuit as they duck through the crowd. “I like your costume,” he tells him, over the dull roar of what sounds like “Old Town Road.”

“Thanks,” Garrett says. He’s kind of the only thing keeping Andrew upright at the moment. “‘Kill Bill.’ Total copout.”

Andrew pretends to understand what that means, and lets Garrett pull him through the front door and into the coolness of the night.

“Think some air’ll do you good,” Garrett says. There’s a hint of Southern twang to his voice that Andrew’s never noticed before. He wonders where exactly Garrett grew up - and then starts feeling sad, because he’ll never have the privilege of finding out.

“You don’t want friends,” he mumbles out. Garrett’s still holding him up. When he tries to move away, that smooth, steady arm snakes around his waist again and pulls him in even closer.

“What’re you talking about?” he laughs. “Of course I want friends. ‘Course I wanna be friends with you.”

“You do?” He lays his head against Garrett’s wide chest and breathes him in. “You really do?”

Garrett gives him a soft little smile, the first iteration Andrew’s ever seen from him. “Yeah, I really do,” he tells him. “I told you you’re something special, Andrew.”

They’re so close. Andrew asks, free of inhibition, “Do you mean that?”

The taller of the two holds his gaze for a long moment - there’s something unreadable in his eyes - and then, too soon, he’s stepping away, looking down at his tennis shoes and saying, “Hey, did you come here with anyone?”

“Yeah, my roommate,” Andrew says, finds himself laughing. “Ricky bo bicky. Bitchy Ricky.”

“That’s not very nice,” Garrett responds, but he’s cracking up, too.

Eventually, they fall into silence again. Garrett kicks at something on the sidewalk and pushes his hands deep into his pockets. Andrew really wants to kiss him. He’s searching woozily around for something to say, when suddenly Garrett perks up and says, “Hey, do you wanna come back to my place?”

Andrew bursts into embarrassed stutters - thinks Garrett’s going to have to piece him back together again, but then he goes on: “No, no, I - I don’t mean like _that_ , silly. I meant, like, we can get food or something and just hang out. Sober up. Crash my couch if you want.”

The corner of Andrew’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “Crash your shitty GoodWill couch, you mean?”

“My couch is _not_ shitty!” Garrett protests, falling into step with Andrew as they start their trek to the other side of campus. “And so what if I got it at GoodWill?”

Andrew lets this warm feeling, this drunk content wash over him as they walk side-by-side. If their knuckles brush, and if they run into each other once or twice on their way back home, well… maybe they won’t have to remember in the morning.

* * *

A terrible, awful light is shining directly on Andrew’s throbbing face.

“Oh, god,” he groans. Reaches around blindly, the brightness searing through his closed eyelids, for a pillow. Holds it over his head and moans some more.

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” Garrett says merrily from somewhere far away. “Are you always this grumpy when you first wake up?”

For a brief moment, Andrew can’t remember where they are - and then the previous night comes flooding back to him. They’d stopped at a Domino’s that stayed open ‘till midnight, and ate pizza on the couch while Garrett put on “Infinity War.” (He has a _projector_ \- how fucking cool is that?) His host gave him lots of water and space, and he’d sobered up after an hour or so.

And then they’d just talked.

It started with Garrett asking Andrew where he’s from, and spiraled into their parents and their similar struggles with coming from so far away, and growing up gay in Tennessee, and drifting away from high school friends and going home for boring breaks with absolutely nothing to do - and slowly, eventually, Andrew realized he’d never felt this close to someone before. There is something about recovering from drunkenness that brings people together. Andrew’s never met someone who’s had such similar experiences - who offers them up in such an intimate, personal way.

He’s sure Garrett’s shared these things with others before - Andrew’s opened up to other friends like this, too. But it’s never been like this. Garrett lays all his cards out on the table: rolls up his sleeves and gives Andrew every part, every piece of himself.

He tells Andrew about his year in France. He talks about how alienated he feels from both juniors and sophomores - because he’s a year behind in coursework, but doesn’t know any of his new classmates. He explains about how he got so into editing and taught himself almost everything he knows. And Andrew listens. He hopes Garrett never stops talking. He’s in love with the sound of his voice: the way it dips up and down, ebbs and flows in pitch. He’d love to hear him sing someday. He thinks Garrett must be a beautiful singer.

They went to bed at five. Garrett gave him too many blankets and went off to his room, and Andrew stretched out on the couch. His legs were a little cramped, but he just curled up and wrapped the duvet tight around him. It smelled like Garrett: fresh dryer sheets and lavender shampoo, and a hint of aftershave. The expensive kind, like he’d splurged a little just for Andrew’s liking.

His hangover is awful, but it’s the best night of sleep he’s gotten in years.

“You want food? I can hook us up with some breakfast burritos,” Garrett says now. He leans his elbows on the kitchen counter and types rapidly on his phone. Andrew sits up on the couch and wonders how many typos he makes, on average, at that speed.

“Actually, it’s more like lunchtime,” he says a moment later, a little sheepishly. “I was gonna Postmates, but - you wanna go out? There’s a great brunch place we could drive to.”

He looks up at Andrew with his mouth wide, a look of childlike joy playing across his parted lips.

That’s when he realizes.

“Fuck,” he says. “Um. Shit. What? Yeah, we can - totally, let’s go. Uh. Out. To eat.”

Garrett snorts. “Smooth,” he says. “You’re navigating.”

“‘S’it cold out?” Andrew asks as he clambers off the couch and presses a palm to his pounding head. “And. Got any Advil?”

“Top shelf, right of the sink,” Garrett says. He goes and brings a gray hoodie from his room. “It’s chilly out; you can borrow this.”

“Should, uh - should I shower or anything?”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Garrett tosses him the pullover and goes to get his keys. “I just took one, so it won’t heat back up for a while. Water pressure in this building’s absolute shit.” He leans in towards Andrew as he passes and pretends to smell him. “And you aren’t that stinky, anyways.”

A haphazard giggle falls from his lips, and he says, “Thanks, man.” Garrett holds the door open for him, and he tries not to show how in love with him he is on the way out.

They get too-expensive waffles that morning, and fall easily into hanging out at least four times a week. Garrett turns to him when Peterson announces another group project. They get coffee every morning and have dinner together every Thursday night. Andrew lets him come over to his measly dorm room on Friday nights when Ricky’s out and Garrett’s off his part-time job at the local movie theater. They sit on the little futon under Andrew’s lofted bed, their legs brushing whenever they move. At Garrett’s behest, they work their way through every Marvel movie chronologically.

“I’m so tired,” Andrew says, scrubbing at his eyes at 4:00 a.m. as they put on “Thor: Ragnarok.”

“Baby, you better rest up for Harry Potter, then,” Garrett informs him. Andrew cackles and leans back against his outstretched arm.

November waxes and wanes. Andrew’s leaving his dorm to walk over to the library for a Garrett “study session” when his phone buzzes:

> **prettyboy watts 5:17pm:** Got us a study room& dinner from the vending machine :-P  
>  **prettyboy watts 5:17pm:** Also, are u by chance staying on campus for Thxgiving? I have a proposition
> 
> **Reply 5:19pm:** should i be scared? you have mad genius ideas. im talkin doc brown vibes
> 
> **prettyboy watts 5:20pm:** I know you meant that as an insult but that's definitely the nicest compliment anyone's ever given me. Point John Wicki
> 
> **Reply 5:20pm:** hahahahahahaa  
>  **Reply 5:21pm:** but yeah actually im staying. plane tix too many $$$
> 
> **prettyboy watts 5:23pm:** You're lucky I speak caveman  
>  **prettyboy watts 5:23pm:** I'll actually be in town too!  
>  **prettyboy watts 5:23pm:** And I can tell you more abt this in person but I always do this like friendsgiving thing every year (super lowkey) and I was wondering if u wanted to come? Just bc it,, sucks to spend holidays alone.  
>  **prettyboy watts 5:24pm:** U can bring whoever you want along!! Definitely Ricky, love that guy sm. Can't believe how funny he is

Andrew stops in his tracks, biting his lower lip to keep from smiling like a fool in the middle of the busy sidewalk.

> **Reply 5:25pm:** garrett i would love that :,,,) tysm for inviting me, you're so so sweet
> 
> **prettyboy watts 5:26pm:** Anything for my favorite guy :.)

His friend chucks a bag of chips at him when he finally enters the study room. “Whatcha workin’ on tonight?” he asks.

“Film History paper, some Orson Welles bullshit.” He sits in the chair Garrett’s pulled out for him and digs through his backpack for his laptop charger. “Hey, should I bring anything to, uh, Garrettsgiving?”

Garrett likes that a lot. “You don’t have to, but you can if you want,” he says once he’s finally finished laughing.

A week later, he shows up with Ricky and some brownies the two of them baked in their shitty dorm kitchen. A blond man who Andrew’s never seen before answers the door and smiles. Jealousy spikes bitterly through Andrew, a snakebite pumping venom to his heart.

“Hey, you must be Andrew!” the guy says, and stands back to let the two of them in. “Garrett talks about you so much, man, it’s good to meet you!”

“Oh,” Andrew stutters. Ricky pats him on the shoulder in a sorry attempt to calm him down and clears his throat.

“I’m Ricky, Andrew’s roommate,” he says. “We grew up together in Chicago.”

“Dude, that’s so _cool!”_ the doorkeeper exclaims, exuding a golden retriever-like energy. Andrew immediately sees why Garrett must be so attracted to him - why he’s never mentioned him to Andrew, has purposefully failed to bring him up in conversation.

“Hey, Caleb, did you get the - oh, Andrew, hey! Ricky! So glad you guys made it!”

Garrett calls out to them from the corner of his living room - where he seems to be tinkering with something on his laptop - and swiftly makes his way over to them. He sweeps Andrew into a tight hug that doesn’t last nearly as long as Andrew would like it to (he still blushes when Garrett pulls away), and then does some weird little handshake with Ricky. They chitchat for a little bit, and Ricky gives Garrett the brownies to go put on the fold-out table he’s set up in the kitchen. Music Andrew doesn’t recognize ambles through the air; someone else must be in charge of the aux for once, and not Garrett.

It’s surprising, that a place always so comforting and homey can feel so suddenly alienating with just a few people added to the mix. Andrew stands on the outskirts of the group, hovering near the kitchen counter, and thinks about how much he would like to just turn around and leave. This was a terrible mistake. Ricky hardly even knows Garrett, and yet he’s already standing by the projector and laughing with him like he’s known him for decades.

A group of Garrett’s other friends are sprawled across the furniture in the living room: some of them on the floor, all holding drinks, and a few occasionally glancing over at Andrew curiously. He flushes, flounders for his phone in his pocket; sees no notifications. He feels embarrassingly alone.

Then Garrett’s stepping over the tangle of people with his ridiculously long legs and coming into the kitchen again, and his hand is sliding around Andrew’s waist - casually, effortlessly, like it belongs there ( _It does,_ Andrew thinks greedily) - and Andrew’s anxiety, his terrible envy, quells.

“Hey,” he says. He’s smiling like an idiot, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to care in Garrett’s presence.

“Hey, yourself,” Garrett replies. His hand moves a little, rubbing circles in the small of Andrew’s back. He’s a magnifying force; Andrew can’t do anything else but step imperceptibly nearer to him, a moth drawn to a beautiful, incredible light.

Garrett’s eyes don’t flicker from Andrew’s for a second - even when someone in the jumbled collection of guests says his name. “I’ll be right there, Shan,” he calls over to them; then he turns his attention back to Andrew and asks, “You want a beer?”

“Are you promoting underaged drinking, esteemed host?” Andrew says coquettishly, turning to face Garrett and inching the tiniest bit closer.

“You’re still twenty?” Both of Garrett’s hands are on Andrew’s hips now - gentle and firm and terrible in the sheer amount of hope they instill in him.

“Late birthday.” Andrew thinks that if he goes into cardiac arrest from his heart rate just skyrocketed, at least he will die happy.

“So fucking lame,” Garrett teases, voice low - even though he’s told Andrew he has a late birthday, too. They could kiss right now, and no one would be the wiser. Andrew could pass into ghost-hood and be at peace haunting GArrett’s apartment for the rest of his existence.

“Garrett,” someone calls insistently again from the couch, drawing out the “E” to a ridiculous length and bursting the little bubble the two of them were just in. Garrett sighs, gets Andrew a beer from the fridge, and tugs him over to the party.

Andrew’s nervousness settles, depletes itself from a dull roar to a tiny little spark in the pit of his stomach, when Garrett introduces him to everyone seated. There’s Shan, a photography major - “With a pre-vet minor!” she gushes excitedly, and Andrew can’t help but latch onto that enthusiasm, that love of animals - and her boyfriend, Chris, who’s in marketing. Then there’s Matt, an audio engineering senior who Andrew swears he’s seen before in the film school computer lab. Seated in the corner is Jack, another photographer who apparently also freelances (“He did my principal shots for, like, _really_ cheap, Andrew, I’ll give you his number!”). Next to him is Ricky, who has somehow already found a blunt and is well on his way to becoming utterly and righteously trashed.

And Caleb. Who Andrew, despite his initial dislike of him, really can’t help but adore after talking to him for about five minutes, and hearing all his embarrassing stories about Garrett back when they were both into Vine.

“Yo, Andrew, were you ever on Vine?” Caleb asks, an arm slung around Andrew’s shoulders and a Whiteclaw in hand.

“Yeah, me and my high school friends used to make the dumbest shit,” he snickers. He’s starting to feel the slightest bit buzzed. Warmth is spreading through him like the loveliest glow. He can’t be bothered to move from his seat.

“Whatever you do,” Caleb says conspiratorially, “don’t ever look up ‘Garrett Watts vine comp’ on YouTube. Don’t do it. I think you’d die of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Oh, my god,” Garrett says from the kitchen. Andrew doesn’t think he’s ever seen him blush before. “Caleb, you _better_ not be talking about what I think you’re -”

“You have to watch them before he gets them taken down,” Caleb whispers very loudly, drawing Andrew’s laugh out of him in the most carefree way.

Garrett finally MacGyver’s his laptop into the projector and queues up “Avatar: The Last Airbender,” which Andrew’s only ever watched a million times. They start on the first episode for Shan, who’s apparently never seen it before - and while the others are watching and chatting quietly, Garrett beckons Andrew over to come help him with the food.

Or, it’s actually to let him have first _pick_ of the food. “This is your first Garrettsgiving,” he says; “you’re the first to eat. Tradition dictates.”

“What about Ricky?” Andrew says halfheartedly. He’s already piling his ZooPals koala paper plate (which… how the _fuck_ does Garrett still have some of these?) high with pizza.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Garrett says, leaning in, “but you’re actually kind of my favorite. So you get preferential treatment.”

Andrew’s heart does this fluttery thing an Olympic gymnast could never even dream of perfecting. “Well, you _do_ know I’m going to say something to Ricky, right?” he goads. “He’ll be crushed, I’m sure.”

“Tough.” Garrett sighs dramatically, tosses a chip in his mouth. “Hey, d’you wanna stay over tonight?”

Andrew blinks. “Are… is no one else going to?”

Garrett gives him a terribly soft smile. “Yeah, they’ve all got their own places to get back to. Matt’s designated driver.”

He seems to detect Andrew’s indecision in the loudness of his pause, and says gently, “I’ll give you time to think about it. I can always ask them to drive Ricky, too; I think you guys live over by Jack, so it wouldn’t be that big a deal.”

“Thanks,” Andrew says quietly. Garrett nods and moves away. Shan comes into the kitchen soon after he leaves in search of food, poking at Andrew’s saran-wrapped plate.

“These aren’t pot brownies, are they?” she asks him, wrinkling her nose.

“Oh, no, definitely not,” he reassures her. “Don’t have that kind of money.”

She laughs a little and turns to look at him. “So, how long have you two been dating?” she queries. “Seems like you know each other really well already.”

“Um,” Andrew says. Looks her in the eyes. “Are you still talking to me?”

“Yeah! You and Garrett, I mean. How long’ve you been dating?”

“We,” Andrew stutters. “We’re. We’re not, um -”

“Andrew?” Garrett comes bouncing into the kitchen, takes Andrew’s hand and holds it tight. “C’mon, you guys are gonna miss the best part!”

He isn’t sure when they switched from Avatar to “Captain America: The Winter Soldier,” but he lets Garrett drag him along anyway, confusion surging in his veins. Shan follows them; he catches her bemused expression when he turns his head to ask her what she means, but thinks better of it.

* * *

“Psst. ‘Wicki.”

He shifts around blearily - pulls his blanket tighter around him, moving closer towards the warmth emanating from whoever’s next to him.

“Andrew, honey, wake up.”

“Mmhgfkhg,” says Andrew. “Garr?”

“Yeah, you still drunk?”

Andrew cracks an eye open and peeks at the man kneeling on the floor next to him.

It’s dark in the living room, but the shades are open and a sliver of moonlight is pooling over Garrett’s face. Andrew thinks he would look a little bit like an angel, if his vision wasn’t so blurry. His head aches.

“Somewhere between wasted and hungover,” he says, voice hoarse. Garrett gets up and pads into the kitchen - brings him back a glass of water, from which he drinks gratefully. His friend taps his leg a little, an unspoken request, and he sits up shakily to make room for him on the couch.

“I woke up and can’t go back to sleep,” Garrett whispers. His arm settles in the loveliest way about Andrew’s waist. Andrew takes this as his invitation to scoot closer - tugging the quilt around both of them, pressing his head to Garrett’s chest. He can hear the comforting, reassuring sound of Garrett’s heartbeat from this vantage point; decides he never wants to move from this position.

“Could go for a walk or something,” Andrew murmurs sleepily. Garrett’s hand runs up and down his right arm. Andrew feels very small: dwarfed in the oversized sleep shirt he’s borrowed from his friend - curled into him as he is now.

“I really just wanna see the stars again, I think.”

“Yeah?” He pulls away a little, gazes up at Garrett with a smile. “Feelin’ homesick, huh?”

Garrett looks back at him with the softest expression Andrew’s ever seen on him. “Something like that,” he says.

He has to force himself to look away, lest his cheeks flare and betray him. “I mean, we could drive out to the ocean or something,” he suggests. “Tomorrow’s Friday, we could go out to the mountains. Hike during the day, stargaze at night.”

His friend sighs, the hum of it surging through his whole body and into Andrew. “That sounds like a dream. I really wish we could do that. But, uh, I’ve got some stuff to work on tomorrow. Gotta finish editing my solo shit.”

“Yeah.” They lapse into a comfortable silence. Andrew listens to the sound of their breathing until it syncs, then says, “Does your building have roof access?”

Garrett must be tired, too, because it takes a second for him to understand what Andrew’s just said. He blinks - and then it clicks - “Oh, my _god_ , Andrew, you fucking genius!” - and he’s springing up from the couch, pulling Andrew along with him - and Andrew thinks he might just end up spending the rest of his life following Garrett along on his crazy adventures, as ridiculous as that sounds - and they’re in the hallway outside Garrett’s front door, the blanket wrapped around Andrew’s shoulders like a superhero cape - making a mad dash for the stairwell, skipping the steps two at a time -

The night air is sobering, cooling against Andrew’s face, as the alcohol in his veins runs its course and the post-Garrettsgiving food sits warm and comfortable in his belly. They can’t really see the stars from here, the city lights leaking into the atmosphere - but Garrett doesn’t seem to mind. The sky is vast and dark and wide, and the moon is full. If Andrew squints, he can just make out Mars.

“Garr,” he calls quietly. It’s almost too easy to slide their hand together. “Thank you for inviting me today. Yesterday. Last night. Uh.”

Garrett turns and looks at him. Andrew knows his face too well - he looks almost nervous now, even though he’s smiling. “Of course I invited you, Andrew,” he says. “You’re one of the most… you - you’re _the_ most important person in my life. Right now.”

He takes in a little breath, a tiny hitch in his throat. “I know we only met each other a couple months ago, and that’s not long enough to even really -”

“Hey,” Andrew says, stepping closer. “I feel the same way. Like I’ve known you my whole life.”

“Andrew, I… I’ve never - I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to someone before. Like - I really think I might -”

He cuts Garrett off, pulls him into a tight hug. He’s too scared to think about what’s coming next - what he was about to say. How drastically their lives are about to change.

Garrett envelops him, his arms bracing around Andrew’s upper back. He dips his head down and buries his face in Andrew’s shoulder. His breath is warm against Andrew’s neck.

“You wanna go get Taco Bell?” he asks when they part. Andrew’s sudden shout of laughter rings out over the rooftops.

Andrew was sure they weren’t open this late, but the one closest to Garrett’s has a twenty-four hour drive-through. Garrett buys more food than any one person could possibly ever need, and they eat standing out in the parking lot, leaning against Garrett’s car. Andrew realizes he’s wearing the hoodie Garrett lent him, what seems like ages ago - he never bothered asking for it back.

Garrett films a video of him folding up an entire Crunchwrap and eating it whole, then pretending to throw up beside Garrett’s Prius. It’s four thirty in the morning and he’s never felt more alive. He knows when he checks Garrett’s story in the morning, it’ll already be saved on the highlight he made specifically for Andrew.

They drive back and lie on Garrett’s bed together, talking until six a.m. Andrew tells Garrett how much he misses snow. They wake up the next day in each other’s arms.

* * *

The semester draws to a close. Chicago beckons to Andrew, but he doesn’t want to go back. His mom calls him a couple times to make sure he prints out his plane ticket. Garrett offers him a ride to LAX, and he happily accepts.

They’re working on their final for Narrative: a black-and-white film that’s supposed to suddenly bloom into color at the end, according to Peterson’s directions. Andrew’s 99% all the other groups are going to do something about seeing in color for the first time when the protagonist meets their “soulmate,” or falls in love. Garrett, ever the unending fountain of youth and incredible ideas, comes up with their plot and manages to convince Andrew to get in front of the camera for once.

“Okay, so I’m thinking,” he says to Andrew - “we’re gonna do a man who developed agoraphobia after an accident. Like, he lost someone in a car crash or something, so now he stays inside all the time. But staying inside makes him really depressed - lots of ‘still life’ shots: leaky faucet, soggy cereal, you know the drill. So he finally gathers enough courage to go outside. And he sees leaves falling from a tree for the first time in, like, years, and that’s when it all comes slowly back into color.”

“And you want _me_ to be the main character?” Andrew says incredulously. “Garr, you know I’ve never acted before -”

“Andrew, honey, I know, but just look at this -” He shows him his phone, where he has the picture of Andrew he took in October pulled up. Andrew, looking up at the leaves with wonder in his eyes. Andrew in lovely focus, and Garrett with this picture _still_ on his phone - taped up on the wall above his desk, in the collage of photos of all his favorite memories.

“What _about_ that picture?” Andrew asks nervously.

“That’s - that’s the tone I’m going for. I wanna recreate that moment.”

Andrew can’t ever say no to that face.

So they dress him up in the most vibrant clothes they can find - Garrett’s rainbow-striped polo, and some jeans with quilted patches Andrew found at a thrift shop (but never had the courage to wear). It won’t show up on grayscale, but will make for a lovely surprise when they do the reveal.

Garrett gets some takes of depressing, broken things placed strategically around the apartment, and always cuts before the camera catches Andrew’s hapless giggles. Andrew actually has fun pretending to be a character. He has no lines, and gets to mope around the living room - stares into the bathroom mirror and think about sad things (like what if Garrett wasn’t in his life? Or didn’t want to be his friend? Or went home to Memphis and just never came back?).

Garrett films him reading a text from his “mom” - Garrett, but with altered contact info - that says, _“I know you’re still thinking of her, and it hurts to come outside, but we all just want to see you again.”_

It’s so easy, working together. They somehow get twice the work finished in half the time it’d take them to get done with other people. Garrett’s quiet behind the camera, and Andrew is stoic in his depressive silence - but once Garrett calls, “Cut,” they both burst into laughter again, a welcome reprieve from the seriousness of the film.

Then they head downstairs to shoot Andrew coming out of the apartment for the first time. It isn’t hard. Andrew thinks back to that day they’d first started working together, looks up at the sky in awe. The leaves fall in the most entrancing way. He imagines how Garrett’s going to edit it - will he do a slow rush from gray to blue, or a sudden slam of color? - and cannot keep himself from smiling.

“That was perfect, ‘Wicki,” Garrett says after they finish the take. “Think you’ve got a couple more in you?”

Andrew glances at the setting sun and squints a little. “We’re losing light,” he says, a little grumpily.

“Oh, _we’re losing light, I’m a filmmaker!”_ Garrett parrots immediately in a mocking, ridiculous tone.

It’s silent for a moment, and then:

“Wh -” Andrew blurts, and bursts into hysteric, cascading laughter. He throws his head back with joy and cannot seem to stop.

His eyes are closed, tears streaming, but he can still hear Garrett walking towards him. He feels the hand on his cheek, but continues to laugh, looking up at his friend with the most lovestruck expression he can muster.

Then Garrett kisses him.

It’s soft and chaste and gentle, in the way Garrett’s always treated him - and much too quick, he’s pulling away, and Andrew’s hand catches his wrist before he retreats too far.

“What are you doing?” he breathes.

“I’m so sorry, Andrew, I shouldn’t have - I - it’s just, you just looked so beautiful, and - when you laugh, I just - you can’t - I -”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, strong and firm. “Kiss me again.”

Garrett’s lovely, perfect mouth falls open in shock. “Are you,” he says shakily - “are you for real?”

“Do I have to do everything myself?” Andrew asks, rolling his eyes, and stands up on his tiptoes to reach him.

* * *

“You wanna hear something really embarrassing?” Garrett asks, fingers wiggling blindly in the air as he reaches for the crappy car stereo.

“Eyes on the road, Green Giant,” Andrew says snarkily. He slaps Garrett’s hand away and goes to switch the station himself.

Garrett gasps dramatically. “I _will_ kick you out of this car and make you _walk_ to LAX, you little simp,” he tells him. “Do not test me.”

Andrew lets out a single cackle and makes a mental note to save that one for later. “Tell me what’s embarrassing,” he says after finally settling on the classic rock channel.

“Do you remember when we first met, and I slipped on the way inside the library?”

“Very well,” he snorts.

“It was maybe, possibly, perhaps because I saw a really pretty boy from one of my classes and got distracted and momentarily forgot how to walk.”

The laugh Andrew lets out is euphoric. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he howls. “I thought you were totally unattainable before we even became friends, but you had a crush on me from the _start?"_

“They don’t cawl it _fallin’_ in lahve for nuffin’, babe,” Garrett says in what is arguably the worst New York accent ever to be embarrassingly attempted in front of one’s boyfriend.

“I am _not_ going to miss you over break,” Andrew tells him. “Not for a single _second_.”

“Oh, shut up, we’re Netflix Partying every night.”

His hand is warm on Andrew’s thigh. Andrew doesn’t think he’ll ever be happier than he is right now.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this well encapsulated the mad dash that is college! Minor disclaimer - I based the courses in this fic off of the ones my own university offers, not UCLA. I also have no idea what UCLA's campus is like, so if you have any familiarity with it and would like to correct me, please feel free to tell me about it in the comments!
> 
> Also, please forgive and/or tell me if my portrayal of film school is incorrect. I thought I was going to be a film studies major at one point in time, so I'm a tiny bit familiar with that world, but it's been a while since I've brushed up on the lingo.
> 
> (Also, I wrote the vast majority of this before Garrett's newest video came out - so basically, I can predict the future.)
> 
> I think I'm literally in love with this AU and I never want to stop writing it - so if you'd like to request a continuation, in exchange for proof of your donation to a BLM-affiliated organization, please let me know! [**Gandrew Fans for BLM**](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Gandrew_Fans_for_BLM/profile) is still up and running, and we'd love to see your contribution!
> 
> And finally - I would love to hear your thoughts about this fic in the comments, and if you'd like to scream with me about Gandrew, [come visit me on Tumblr](https://cherryblossomwatts.tumblr.com)!


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